Petrichor
by fleurs-du-mol
Summary: "Can I open a window?" John stood as deliberately as he had sat down. It occurred to Sherlock that he was somehow aware that something was actually "wrong," or at least out of the ordinary, even though Sherlock had to admit that any so-called bizarre behaviour— coming from him— could be ignored as quotidian.


Small author's note: I know the Joycean stream-of-consciousness without italics may get a little old, but it is a stylistic choice and not a formatting error. :)

* * *

In a rare flurry of self-doubt, Sherlock knew that he didn't want John to see him like this. It was stupid. It was self-indulgent. There wasn't much to see and there was even less to hear, but he hadn't had the opportunity to tell his flatmate about the potential bad days: the ones that Mycroft used to call Sherlock's "black days" back when there was something he could do about them. That would have been at least fifteen years ago now. Time was, all it took was an adventure novel and maybe a walk. Cake and stories.

Asinine cunt, trusting any man she ran into on the street to hail her a cab, so easy to just lure her back into the alley; the rain hadn't reached there and no one else saw the blood spatter on the bricks outside the takeaway place next to the club entrance— AB negative, they'd gotten the type, and she'd been a blood donor but with women it was even rarer—

From his back, sprawled on the floor, Sherlock looked up at the uncorked bottle on the shelf and wondered how incoherent he would be if he drank the whole thing in the next fifteen minutes. He estimated that John usually returned around six, and depending on how long he'd been on the floor, fifteen minutes were about all he had. He'd better not, though. He could picture John's face at the sight he already made. There was no need to add complete inebriation to the situation. He sighed and flung an arm out for the pipe hidden under the sofa.

Groping around until he made contact with the smooth ivory and the little glass jar of tobacco, he hummed with satisfaction. The bowl was easy to pack; he could have managed it half-asleep even though he'd "stopped" smoking a few months ago. Half a minute later, he rolled to his side, double checked his handiwork, and produced a matchbook from the same sofa cache. Flame hissed and he brought the pipe to his lips, drew in smoke.

Mrs. Hudson had changed detergents— the flat smelled different since John had forgotten to do his laundry, working full-time, so she'd done it for him— he'd also turned the thermostat up when he had a girl over, that new one, I saw her down the road yesterday snogging another man— John should know already, given he's an orderly at the clinic, younger though; that's going to irk him, but people never notice not even when he's got the same lipstick as your girlfriend's smudged along the collar, carmine red not blood red like the spatter on brick—

John tossed his coat to the rack, carelessly, and nearly tripped over Sherlock's feet. "Here," said Sherlock. He exhaled smoke and closed his eyes at John's intake of breath, heard him stop walking and felt his eyes look down.

"What— why are you on the ground?"

"Laying down."

"The curtains are drawn."

"Yes."

"You're… smoking."

"Yes. Obviously."

Sherlock glanced up at John, taking more time than usual to focus properly. There's a smudge of grease on his shirt, from cheese or pepperoni maybe, pizza at lunch from the Italian place two doors over from work, eyes look strained— can't explain to him— oh, stop, Sherlock, it'll pass it always passes and there's still the Valium but diazepam never did work for you and you've been drinking there has to be something else in the drawer, remember when they started you on carbamazepine though that was ages back— He wished there was something easier than what was about to happen. Everyone gets so angry, so worked up over what I'm doing and what should it matter to him, or anyone— he'll leave, stupid to think anyone would want me as a flatmate—

Moving slowly, John sat down on the edge of the sofa, the one furthest from Sherlock. His face was calm, placid, but Sherlock saw concern in the tightness of the lines that stood out around his mouth. "Have you eaten?"

Gauzily the smoke rose to obscure his face from Sherlock's view. "No." He felt his lips curve up in the parody of a smile. Fear, there's no way to articulate the fear, chemical response anyway—

"How about tea, then? I think we've still got the croissants from yesterday; they'll go stale if we don't eat them."

"All right." Easier to agree than to say no.

"Can I open a window?" John stood as deliberately as he had sat down. It occurred to Sherlock that he was somehow aware that something was actually "wrong," or at least out of the ordinary, even though Sherlock had to admit that any so-called bizarre behaviour— coming from him— could be ignored as quotidian. Laying on the floor was not necessarily that abnormal. John was treating him like a patient and he wasn't sure if he liked it.

Should have been a psychiatrist, this one, but probably can't manage it now that he's back to being a civilian, or maybe he could— heart, the best ones have it, and the worst ones are the bored ones, prescribing pills left and right sometimes I wonder if they do it to see how bad they can make someone— brain chemistry is delicate, easy to simulate any effect you want with the right combination of—

Sherlock didn't know if he actually said yes, or if John opened the window anyway. It was windy outside and smelled wet, smelled like London.

Petrichor— petra: Greek for stone, and ichor, well, that's the tricky part… blood of the gods; "Blood followed, but immortal; ichor pure;" Lovecraft used that word in one of his stories and I doubt Homer would have appreciated it—

"Petrichor?"

John's voice sounded like it came from yards away.

"London— it perpetually smells like petrichor," Sherlock said, easing himself out of his position on the floor and putting the pipe down on the coffee table. The room stood as it was, which was a good sign that most of the alcohol was out of his system. He had mixed though; weed wasn't his drug of choice unless he felt like this: frenetic, frustrated, near to weeping with rage or fear or sadness yet unable to stop his mind from winding around aimlessly. It could last days or it could last hours. In combination, the two depressants could slow the aimlessness, and though they actually took the option of control from him, the fact that he'd ingested substances to lose control, in itself, meant that he controlled something. Or so it seemed to him. People rarely understood it that way.

"Sherlock," said John with the same air of deliberate gentleness, "what is petrichor?"

The direct question forced him to stop, evaluate, sort through the stream of thoughts.

"Ichor is from 'The Iliad.'"

"Missed most of it. Wasn't a lit person." John's hands worked as he looked at Sherlock, who'd meandered over to sit at the kitchen table. Sherlock saw that he was arranging the last of the cheddar Mrs. Hudson had brought them, placing it alongside their croissants with a little pile of ham slices. "Go on, then. Petrichor. I'm still missing half the word." Looking at the croissants, Sherlock realised he was hungry but wondered if he could hold down much food. He straightened the hem of his dressing gown, then shrugged and launched into an explanation.

"Ichor— blood of the gods, according to Homer. Petra— Greek for 'rock.' In 1964, two researchers from Australia made up the word 'petrichor' to describe the smell of earth and rain. It comes from bacteria in soil that produce a compound called geosmin. Technically a simple alcohol."

"Better than a word-a-day calendar, you are," said John with a small smile. "Even under the influence."

Sherlock glowered. Inwardly, he preened. "Not hard when your vocabulary is so medical."

"Don't ruin the compliment. Speaking of medical— what have you had, besides the tobacco?"

Steam issued from the kettle and John reached over to turn it off; deftly he got out two mugs from the cupboard over their heads and dropped a teabag in each mug. Although his first instinct was to bristle, Sherlock forced himself to answer. "A bottle of wine, two shots of vodka, some of that stuff I told you not to drink last week—" he paused to consider whether he'd had anything more. "And you can't arrest me so I don't mind telling you: weed. Quite a lot of it, I'd imagine." He raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Yet, mystery of mysteries, the best thing all day has been you asking me about petrichor just now. Keep talking."

Blowing air out from his cheeks and stifling a chuckle, John said, "Okay. Sorry to unleash Doctor Watson on you, but are you on anything— I mean, anything legal that a doctor gave you."

"Gave that all up years ago. Much better like this."

John looked as though he wanted nothing more than to shake Sherlock and tell him, no, it was not much better like this, but he wisely kept silent. Sherlock anticipated the argument: If you're not going to be on any medications, you shouldn't be self-medicating either; alcohol and the like mimic symptoms of—

"Hey—" said John. Sherlock blinked and saw, as well as felt, that John had leaned across the table— avoiding the chemistry set— and put both hands on his shoulders. They were warm, and they slid a little on the dark silk of the dressing gown. "Stop. Just stop— tea. Trash telly. Bed. I'm not going to make you talk about whatever's going on— in there— but you'll be much better off with food and maybe some idle chatter about who's dating who and which M.P. has hired a prostitute. If you feel like talking, that's fine. But I can see you going back in, and clearly in is not a good place to go. Okay?"

Sherlock considered his words and discovered, much to a feeling that seemed like it could be delight, that this was an acceptable intervention. He nodded, accepted the steaming mug of tea that was passed into his hands, and concentrated on the scent of Earl Grey and petrichor.


End file.
